The Eyes are the Door to the Soul
by Fanlocked
Summary: Olivier Armstrong is practical, almost to a fault. Why then, does she have hair impairing her vision? (Oneshot, slight Miles/Olivier) Set early in their relationship.


He once asked her why she kept her bangs long over her eye. Not that he had any problem with it, of course not, but it had been nagging at the back at his mind for a good while. It simply wasnt practical. Why would a logic driven woman who was often said to have eyes on the back of her head willingly obstruct her own vision? It seemed blatantly out of character.

The train chugged along at a monotonous pace, but from what her aide could tell, not fast enough for the career-driven General Armstrong. She had clearly finished all paperwork, and simply put, she had nothing to do. Oddly enough, the usually preoccupied General didn't look bored, that wasn't it at all. Her thoughts were wandering, and it was unusual for her to be given this time to reflect, so Miles did not feel the need to interrupt her. It wasn't as if he had the luxury of wandering thoughts often either, so he reflected on the training mission he just performed with Colonel Mustang and those under his command. He noticed how in tune, simply put, Lt. Hawkeye was with her Colonel. The way she knew him, his habits, his needs and faults. Miles couldn't help but reflect on his own relationship with General Armstrong. Granted, Miles wasn't a complete incompetent, and he knew the Queen's strengths and astonishingly few weaknesses, be he didn't feel as if he knew Olivier M. Armstrong, that he only knew General Armstrong, and he wondered if they were truly seperate people. There must be more to her then what she displays in front of her subordinates. She's just, so professional. Although, he supposed, stabbing Raven was unprofessional. He faintly smirked at that. Immediately, though, that smile faded as he realized he really didn't know enough about his General. He snuck a look at her. Everything else seemed extremely professional, full military uniform buffed to the point of glaring light. But there was still the matter of her hair, her hair, that was a mystery to him. Long hair was simply impractical, and impractical is a word no sane being would ever use to describe his General. Minutes ticked by, and he continued to debate the issue of her hair, it was going to bother him for the rest of the foreseeable future if he didn't ask, so he simply thought to hell with it, I'll ask.

"Ma'am?" Miles said softly, not wanting to surprise her, if that was even possible. Her gaze shifted over from the window to him, scanning him quickly with those glacier eyes of hers.

"Yes, Miles?" She replied, not sharply, but not nearly as quietly as he had. He paused, now afraid to ask. "Well?" She repeated.

"Well, m'am, I was wondering why you wore your hair down." She didn't respond for a second, so he continued, slightly nervously. "It's just that it seems impractical, and you're the most practical person I know, so…" He trailed off, realizing that talking only made him seem like an ass. He was pleasantly surprised with the Ice Queen herself smirked.

"Well-made observation, Major. You are, of course correct. It seems impractical and what's more, long hair is an extremely feminine trait in a male dominated field. Although, I can assure you, it has a purpose. The story traces back to me in the early stages of being a soldier…"

First Lieutenant Olivier Armstrong was absolutely sick of this place. The men were uncivilized, unkept, the work was dull, and the Captain in charge of this mission was an incomparable buffoon. They were in charge of 'ending' a terrorist group and would mean a long awaited promotion to the imbecilic Captain, and a glorious rise to Captain herself. Of course, part of her expected this to be a suicide mission for the Captain, because anyone who could hear, see, or have valid thoughts would realize this captain was woefully under qualified, under experienced and simply lacked the cognitive ability to make decisions that were at all sane. The platoon consisted of the two commanding officers, her and the Captain, and five subordinates who were surprisingly competent, and she would not at all be please if the Captain got them all killed. They had narrowed the terrorist group into one dusty building. The moronic Captain commanded, in his plain tenor voice to:

"Be ready men. These are dangerous terrorists who want to harm our country. Grahf," He directed his gaze to a raven-haired man, small of stature, but a weapons expert and an excellent, lithe hand to hand combatant who held the rank of Specialist. " You will scout ahead and take out any in the front of the building. "Mastrel-" Now the Captain was commanding a sandy-haired, tall, skeptical looking young man who held the rank of Private First Class. Olivier quite liked him. He was the perfect mix of cynicism, sarcasm, contempt for the Captain, and pure mental brilliance. "You head around back. Cut them off." Mastrel rolled his eyes, he was obviously adept at combat but it was obviously not his strong suit. The belligerent Captain was blatantly misdirecting his troops. "Grant, Stefans-" His eyes now looked over two men who looked more like gorillas stuffed into a military uniform. Basically the human equivalent of a tank, they were, absolutely fighting stereotypes, fairly smart and excellent power players. They were Private Second Classes. "Head around and take out the sniper in the building across the street." They nodded. "And you, Crimea, will stay here. Mind communications. Armstrong and I will clear the streets." Crimea, a Specialist of medium height nodded. Her skill set included hand to hand combats. She was a whirlwind of knives, poison, and pressure points and had studied some Xingese medicine. She was also particularly inept at anything electronic. Olivier sighed. She was used to these foolish behaviors, but here, it would good men killed.

"Sir, if I may?" Olivier offered. The brute of a Captain looked at her, clearly surprised at her disagreement. He grunted in approval. "I think we should re-arrange the jobs, sir. It's not like taking out a lone sniper takes a lot of force as opposed to stealthiness, sir, which is why I advise Grahf takes that job. Crimea and Stefans together, with brute force and extreme skill in hand to hand combat should take the front. Grant himself, with possible backup with you or I, could easily take the back door. Mastrel is more suited to the intellectual warfare, would be better suited to monitoring communications and clearing the street. Sir." She finished her quick 'adaptation' of the plan to mixed results. The entire platoon was beaming at her, except for the Captain, who was taking on a putrid shade of red. He clearly did enjoy being corrected, by a subordinate and a women, in front of the entire platoon.

"What do you think this is, Armstrong? Your platoon? Because I can tell you, it's not, and I will not accept disrespect from a First Lieutenant." He edged closer while continuing his tirade, and was practically spitting in Olivier's face by the end.

"I meant no disrespect, sir, only a modification of job arrangement." Olivier was absolutely poker faced. While she had complete control of the majority of her face, her eyes betrayed her. The message was clear in them. Olivier Armstrong had every notion of disrespecting the incompetent ass. Yet, unfortunately for her, Olivier's eyes clearly presented the utter contempt she had for him.

"And then, sir?" Miles asked eagerly, wanting to hear more stories of the General's early days as a First Lieutenant. His General smiled.

"He was absolutely livid, of course. He actually confined me to our shabby van which served as our base, and demoted me. Stefans and Grahf were killed, and Mastrel was so furious at the loss of his poker players he filed for court-martialing him." She drawled with a smile. "I was called up at the case against him, and was quoted as describing his actions 'at a level of ineptitude bordering on the imbecilic'. He was fired, and not only was I given his rank of Captain, but the promotion he would've had, assuming he hadn't botched the mission, mostly due to Mastrel and Crimea's absolutely sparkling recommendations of me. Although it ended with me being promoted to Major, it gave me valuable information about myself." Her tone became more serious, and her gazed deepened. "As much as I try, my eyes usually betray whatever true motivations I have, and that's never an advantage. Covering one of them up usually negates that disadvantage." Finishing her story, the Major General leaned back in her seat and resumed staring out of the window, as she had previously, except for the fact that it was now dark.

"Thank you, sir." Miles said warmly. The General nodded, absent mindedly, obviously already enamored with other thoughts. Miles smiled, it was an enlightenment to the General's character, and it was really an interesting story. It was quite nice, knowing more about the General.

And even if the General wouldn't admit it, it felt nice having someone know more about her.


End file.
